Freedom Everburning
by T3t
Summary: This is not the world you remember.  World War II changed everything and politics, assassinations, and betrayal mark the course of history.
1. Prologue

**A/N: I'm writing this for The 500 Club at DarkLordPotter - Cheers, guys, this wouldn't have gotten anywhere without you. As the name of the club implies, the purpose is to write at least 500 words a day - meaning that updates to this story are going to be fairly regular, probably in the neighborhood of once a week. I've already finished chapter 1, just needs some polishing, so that should be up in a few days as well.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

**

* * *

**

Harry lay on his bed, staring up at the white plaster ceiling, which was chipped and peeling. He frowned. He resolved to ask Uncle Vernon to have a paint job done – the ceiling was wreaking havoc with his concentration.

He glanced briefly around the room, which was nondescript. An average twin-sized bed, an average oak table littered with average miscellanea. Average beige carpeting and an average light fixture, turned off. An average wardrobe and an average bookcase filled with average books. A closer inspection would reveal some titles that one might not expect in the room of a soon-to-be 13-year old boy, but the room rarely had guests. Those few who did enter regularly had no inclination to peruse the selection in any case.

Harry let out a small sigh. He had a desperate hope that the next school year would be more interesting than the last. Studying only took so much time if one was not aiming for perfect grades, and tended to be rather boring besides.

He glanced at the scattered papers on his desk, and felt a small sliver of excitement run through him. The combined political and philosophical system he had been designing since the start of summer was nearly complete. He had accomplished in a month and a half what most philosophers, both ancient and modern, spent their entire lives doing – creating a generalized system of acceptable human interaction.

Harry often noticed that people engaged in rampant hypocrisy, which was generally subconscious. This, of course, applied to philosophers as well as anybody, in fact sometimes more so. There were only two kinds of philosophers who rarely contradicted themselves, he had found. The first was the strict authoritarian, whose answer was always to leave things up to the State. The idea that the State could be faulty was ignored, but one had to make allowances. The second was the religious fanatic, whose answer was to leave things up to God. Or Gods. Or even Satan, once.

Harry had read a treatise by a philosopher who appeared to be an intersection of two, suggesting that a religious oligarchy would solve the world's ills. He had been left fuming after he finished reading, going so far as to snap at Dudley and incite an argument with Uncle Vernon over something meaningless.

And thus, his birthday being tomorrow, he had little to look forward to for the rest of the summer after he brushed up the minor details. He had a month left with nothing to do before next term started.

A slow smile spread across Harry's face. He briefly considered attempting to get his work published, and snorted. Sooner would the dead philosophers rise from their graves than a British publisher release such inflammatory work, especially given the political climate.

"Harry!" A shout came from downstairs, derailing his train of thought. "Breakfast is ready!"

"Coming, Aunt Petunia!" He shouted back.

Harry strode to the wardrobe and pulled it open, searching for a matching pair of socks. Finding a suitable pair, he pulled them on and strode out the door to his room.

He ran down the stairs, stepping on the creaking stair in his haste and through the hallway into the kitchen.

Harry walked in to find everybody already seated at the table. Aunt Petunia was cutting up her omelet into small pieces, and Uncle Vernon was reading the daily editorial. Dudley, as usual, was immersed in the morning television shows.

Harry sat down at the table and poured himself a cup of tea. "What's in the omelet?"

Aunt Petunia shrugged, looking distracted. "It's with cheese. What did your trainer say, Dudley?"

Dudley pulled his attention away from the television. "He said that I can go back to a normal protein intake, now. We're making good progress, apparently."

The rest of the meal passed in relative silence. Harry finished his meal quickly, looking forward to jotting down some ideas he had. Aunt Petunia fidgeted in her seat. Harry shot her a curious glance. She seemed unusually tense this morning, he thought.

As Harry was taking his dishes to the sink, he heard Uncle Vernon snort and fold up his newspaper. "Tony Blair – worst thing that's ever going to happen to this country. The man _sounds_ reasonable, of course, but he wants the same things as all those other bloody communists. If he becomes Prime Minister…this country is going to shit," he muttered.

"Vernon!" Aunt Petunia snapped. He grumbled an apology.

Washing the cutlery, Harry rolled his eyes. He agreed with Uncle Vernon, but the Tory leadership had made several spectacular errors in the last few years, most notably attempting to prop up the Pound prior to Black Wednesday.

If they continued like that, Harry thought, it was very likely that Blair would become Britain's next Prime Minister. The general election results weren't looking very hopeful, either.

He finished washing the dishes and bounced up the stairs. He had to get these ideas out of his head, _now._

_Aid to foreign countries should be heavily contingent on those countries advancing individual freedom, and is otherwise acceptable in the case of emergency, such as natural disasters. Support given simply for the vaguely defined purposes of "increasing standard of living" is both ineffective and unjustifiable. Corrupt dictatorships generally misappropriate the funds. Even if this occurrence is eliminated, the funds could be put to better use at home. Reductions in taxes, preferably, but an increase of essential services would be an acceptable alternative._

_A better solution would be a campaign focused on donations to private charities, who spend much more per pound on their stated goal than the government does, as they have lower overhead and administrative costs. It is questionable, however, whether the government should spend money on advertising…_

Harry put down his pencil, and scratched his head. The ideas were expressing themselves, but the ambiguity and lack of clear-cut right or wrong solution was giving him a headache. It would be so much easier just to say foreign aid was a misuse of tax money, but there were scenarios in which he could see a good reason for the government to give money to another government. Not for munitions, though –

The doorbell ringing, followed by a crash and a shriek from downstairs, caused Harry to fall from his chair into a heap on the floor.

He cursed, and stood up, brushing himself off. He ran to the door, and heard Uncle Vernon shout from downstairs, "Are you alright, Petunia?"

He missed her reply, if there was one, amidst the general chaos that was the living room. Aunt Petunia had knocked over a candleholder on the fireplace mantle. Uncle Vernon was trying his best to calm her down, and Dudley was standing in the corner near the hallway looking bewildered. His attention was soon drawn away from the scene as he saw that nobody was injured, and he noticed the stranger standing in the doorway. She was a thin woman, and quite old, judging by the wrinkles that lined her face. Harry estimated her to be in her sixties. Her graying black hair was pulled back in a tight bun and her two-piece suit was unruffled as she surveyed the scene.

Aunt Petunia seemed to come to her senses, and let the woman in. "Please, come in and have a seat. Would you care for some tea?" Harry noticed her hands shaking as she smoothed down her dress.

"A spot of tea would do us all some good, I imagine," the stranger replied. She pinned Harry with a look and he felt a sudden urge to hide himself in his room.

Aunt Petunia's eyes darted between them. "Harry, this is, ah-"

"Professor McGonagall," the woman finished, eyes still locked on him. "Albus Dumbledore has sent me in his stead, as I am the Deputy Headmistress as well. I am here as you requested to talk to Mr. Potter."

Petunia gave a short nod and dragged Vernon into the kitchen, Dudley following and peppering them with questions.

Harry slowly sank onto the couch, and the Professor took a seat in an armchair. She sat straight, ignoring the cushioned back.

Her gaze softened as she noticed that they were alone. "Mr. Potter. I am here to talk to you about your education in the coming term."

Harry's brain seemed to start again. "I'm not going to Stonewall next year?"

"No, indeed not. Ah, thank you," she said, as Aunt Petunia deposited a tea set onto the table and left in a hurry. "You will be going to the same school as your parents… do I understand correctly that your Aunt has told you nothing about them? About your mother, at least?"

"She finds it difficult to talk about them. I think something happened, she's never told me about anything past my mum's childhood…" he trailed off, and then it clicked. "You knew my parents?"

"Yes, I did." She took a sip of tea. "They were both very talented individuals."

"Wait, so what school do you teach at?" Harry asked.

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she replied.

Harry blinked. He drew his eyebrows together. "Show me."

Raising an eyebrow at his brusque tone, she drained the last of her tea and set the cup down. Then she snapped her right wrist forward, causing a long wooden stick to appear in her hand. She waved it over her teacup, which turned into a mouse _and ran across the tea set._ She waved her wand over it again before it ran off the table, and it turned back into a teacup.

Harry gaped. He picked up the teacup, inspected it, and put it back down.

The universe didn't work like that. _The universe just DIDN'T WORK LIKE THAT-_

And then he stopped that line of thought, because he remembered reading in a book about Richard Feynman how it was possible that a kettle full of water put over a flame would freeze instead of boiling. The average heat transfer was from the fire to the kettle, but it was possible, if unlikely to the extreme, that the heat transfer would go in the other direction.

He remembered thinking that could cause spontaneously levitating objects, as well. So magic wasn't actual magic, so much as a method of forcing the universe into a certain quantum state?

Either that or some god was having a huge joke at his expense.

"Are you quite alright, Mr. Potter?" she asked, sounding worried for the first time.

"I'm fine," came the automatic response.

"Do you have any questions?" she said, looking at him askance.

"Err, yeah," Harry replied, coming out of his daze. "Where do I get one of those?" He pointed at her wand.

"A wand, Mr. Potter." She had assumed something closer to her normal facial expression. "We will need to purchase your school supplies. You will buy your own wand then."

"Where do we buy supplies for a school of magic?" he questioned.

"We have a hidden shopping district in London," she answered. "It would be best if we could leave soon. I'm afraid I have a prior engagement later tonight."

"Oh, uh, now? Well, I suppose…" Harry ran into the kitchen, where Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were engaged in a whispered debate and Dudley was once again watching the television.

"Aunt Petunia?" he asked, cutting her off. She looked up at him, a questioning look on her face. "Professor McGonagall said that she needs to take me to pick up my school supplies now. Is that alright?"

"Of course, dear," she said, looking a little lost.

Harry turned to leave the kitchen, and heard Dudley shout, "Bring me back something cool!"

"Sure thing!" he shouted back, and ran upstairs to grab a jacket.

He ran back downstairs to the living room, where Professor McGonagall was waiting.

Harry opened the front door, only to glance back and find her still standing in the same spot, looking decidedly amused. He looked outside, and noticed that there were no cars parked nearby. "So there are magical methods of transportation as well?" he asked.

She gave him a wry smile. "Yes, come here."

He walked over, and stopped a foot away, hesitant.

She laid a hand on his shoulder, and a second later he gasped, a feeling like mild friction burn scouring his exposed skin. And then he noticed they were no longer in the house.


	2. Reborn

**A/N: This has been ready since Monday, but I only just figured out how to get around FFN messing up the upload. Chapter 3 should be up by Monday, I hope, and then onto a more regular weekly schedule after Chapter 4.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

* * *

The pair had appeared in a tiny room. It had one small window and one door, otherwise being bare. Harry would have called it a large closet, except there were no coat hangers.

Still holding his shoulder, Professor McGonagall drew him out of the room and into a narrow hallway. Harry heard a faint murmur of conversation from one end of the hall, and McGonagall set off at a brisk pace in that direction.

"So, teleportation… is that a skill that I can learn?" he mused, after catching up with her.

"Yes, and we call it apparition. It is actually one of the simplest forms of magic. Apparating does not require a wand, only sufficient concentration," she said.

"It felt rather unpleasant. Why is that?" Harry questioned.

If McGonagall was confused by this line of questioning, she didn't show it. "You felt a mild burning sensation?" At his nod, she continued. "Apparation involves displacing air in the target area before arriving. While your magic is intimately familiar with your own body and its shape, it is less familiar with anybody who you may be taking along with you. The vacuum created for the second individual is slightly too large, and the air snaps back to fill the vacuum, hitting the exposed skin."

While Harry paused to digest this, they emerged from the hallway into the back of a dim tavern.

As they made their way to the bar, Harry observed the patrons. To his inexperienced eye, the tavern and the people in it looked like a tavern should look: dim lighting, scruffy wooden tables, large mugs filled with unidentifiable drinks. The only interesting thing he noticed was that several of the customers were wearing what seemed to be long, flowing robes, but he supposed that fashion in the magical world was different from the mundane clothing he was accustomed to.

Harry was so immersed in his surroundings that he almost bumped into Professor McGonagall as she stopped at the bar.

"Professor Quirrel," she greeted a man nursing a mug of beer at the bar. "This is Harry Potter. Mr. Potter, Professor Quirrel will be your defensive magic instructor at Hogwarts."

Quirrel looked to be in his thirties, with thinning brown hair and a sharp gaze. "Pleased to meet you, Professor," said Harry, shaking his hand. "Likewise, Mr. Potter," the professor replied, with a strong voice and a firm grip. "You are here to pick up your school supplies?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied.

Quirrel smiled. "Then I recommend picking up _Theories of Magic_ by Thomas Brown and _A Beginner's Magical Study _by Miranda Goshawk in addition to the required texts. If you have time, read them both over the summer. I would be most interested to hear what you think of them," he finished with a grin.

Professor McGonagall gave a thin smile. "Thank you, Quirinus." With that, she led him through a door near the bar that he would have been hard-pressed to find by himself. They emerged into a small courtyard surrounded by a grey brick wall, which Professor McGonagall strode toward.

"Why did Professor Quirrel recommend those books?" Harry asked.

McGonagall frowned as she stopped at the wall, and seemed to gather her thoughts. "Professor Quirrel is very active in his participation of the recent magical renaissance. While there is nothing wrong with that," she said as she scanned the wall, "He also seeks to include students who were raised in the mundane world in his research, for their… perspective."

She seemed to find what she was looking for, and drew her wand. She tapped a brick, and whispered, "_Open._"

Harry raised an eyebrow as the stone wall folded itself backward, leaving them ample room to pass through. As soon as he stepped through, however, a wall of sound hit him. He chalked it up to more magic, and turned to McGonagall, intent on continuing his polite interrogation.

But before he could so much as open his mouth, she spoke. "I dare say I can anticipate your next question. I will give you an abbreviated history of the recent events in the wizarding world while we walk to the bank. You will need to be aware of the political realities of today, and history books will only grant you minutiae."

She set off at a brisk pace, navigating the press of the crowd like someone at home. Harry gamely avoided being separated from her, despite the multitude of distractions.

"I assume you have at least a passing familiarity with the events of the Second World War?" the Professor asked over the din of chattering voices and boots hitting cobblestones.

"I know what happened fairly well," he replied. "From our perspective, at least. What word did you use? Mundane?" He looked at her and caught the edge of a small, grim smile.

Her lips thinned out. "Mundane… yes. The wizarding world was not directly involved in your war. However, aerial bombings inflicted significant casualties to various wizarding settlements across Europe in the early days of the war. An aspiring dark wizard by the name of Grindelwald used the chaos to gather an army and attempted to seize control of many European nations. He was finally stopped and defeated by Albus Dumbledore the same year that your war ended." She neatly sidestepped an overeager merchant and continued. "The first major consequence of this was that our world very suddenly became aware of the capabilities of the mundane world. If there had been warnings from the mundane-born wizards and witches, they were ignored by the Ministry and the _nobility_," she practically hissed, and took a moment to compose herself.

Harry jumped to the logical conclusion. "The wizarding world was isolationist before World War Two?"

McGonagall sniffed. "Yes, Britain most of all. We had our noses rubbed in it rather badly. At the end, after Grindelwald had been defeated, everybody was scrambling all over themselves to figure out what had allowed him to rise to power. The bombings quickly came to the forefront of discussion, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the wizarding world took a rather close look at its counterpart. They found science," her lips twisting at the end. "And so, despite the negative stance that the Ministry took on it, many wizards adopted mundane methods of invention and discovery and began advancing the study of magic by leaps and bounds." Harry was forcibly reminded of the Industrial Revolution.

They had approached a large white building towering over the rest of the alley. "The second consequence was directly related to the first, and we will continue discussing it after we have made our withdrawal," she said.

"This is a bank?" Harry asked in an awed hush.

"Yes." Her face looked pinched. "There are goblins who work here. Do not stare overlong." With that, she walked towards the giant bronze doors, and he trotted along behind her.

They passed through two sets of doors and an inscription which Harry thought was in poor taste. The inside of the bank looked nothing like the banks he had visited before with Uncle Vernon. It was a long hallway filled with tellers' booths on both sides. Mindful of the Professor's earlier warning, he kept from staring at the goblins which manned about half of the booths.

McGonagall looked around and led him to the nearest open booth, which, Harry was pleased to note, had a human behind it. He didn't think he would have been able to avoid asking questions otherwise.

"We would like to make a withdrawal," McGonagall said to the man.

"Paper or directly from the vault?" the teller asked, shifting in his seat.

"Paper, please," she replied, handing him an old-fashioned key.

His eyes widened in surprise. "Haven't seen one of these in a while. Do you want to get a card and code to replace it?"

McGonagall looked at Harry. "Mr. Potter, are you familiar with debits cards?"

Harry nodded. She turned back to the teller and replied in the affirmative. "I'll be right back with the paperwork, then." The teller left his seat and rushed off to the end of the hall.

"What did he mean by directly from the vault?" Harry asked.

McGonagall smiled. "One of the few good things that came out of the war, I suppose. As you so succinctly deduced, we were incredibly isolationist. Our economic system was based on precious metals, specifically gold and silver. To a smaller degree, bronze as well. We had little use for gold and silver outside of making jewelry, so they were used as representational currency. Of course, our economy was in a shambles after the war, but when we realized how much gold and silver were worth in the mundane world, everybody suddenly found themselves much richer."

Harry stood for a moment, digesting this. "So you use paper currency now? Is it backed by gold and silver?"

"No, actually. Due to the demands of various factions, there are two different systems of paper currency. The first is as you said, backed by gold, silver, and bronze in various denominations. These are typically used in private transaction where it would be impractical to carry large amounts of solid metal coins. The second is fiat, based heavily on the mundane British pound, with a fluid exchange rate to gold and silver," she finished as the teller returned with the paperwork.

The teller looked at McGonagall, and then directed his attention at Harry. "Mr. Potter, please look over this and sign at the bottom." He pushed a piece of paper to Harry, who skimmed it. Nothing objectionable jumped out at him, but he was not well-versed in legalese so he gave it to McGonagall to look over. She assured him it was safe to sign.

He penned his signature, and slid it back to the teller. The teller tapped it with his wand, and the paper flashed blue and was replaced by what seemed to be an ordinary debit card. "Now that you have been confirmed as the owner of the vault, you need to inscribe in print a password onto the card. It will not leave a physical mark, but it is required to make any withdrawals as well as the card itself. This is a much more secure system than the old keys," the teller said.

"I have a vault?" Harry asked McGonagall, momentarily sidetracked.

"Yes, your parents were quite wealthy. Your father came from old money, and inherited what would have been a massive fortune even 100 years ago. I recommend you choose a password that nobody who knows you would guess," she said.

Harry thought for a moment, and drew the card close to him. He carefully wrote something on the white line, scrutinized the card, and wiped his thumb across it. "I'm done."

"Very good," the teller replied. "How much did you wish to withdraw?"

"200 sterling," McGonagall said. "That ought to be enough for supplies, and maybe some pocket change as well."

The teller pointed to a white stone tablet on the desk. "Place your card in there and sign your password at the bottom."

Harry did so, and when prompted by the appearing ink on the tablet, entered the amount he wished to withdraw. While the teller opened up a drawer under his desk, Harry stared at the balance now displayed on the tablet. That was quite a lot of money. Enough to play in politics, even.

Money in hand, the pair left the bank. As they navigated the crowd to the trunk store, Harry brought up his next question. "Professor, you said there was another major consequence of the war?"

McGonagall's face tightened. "During the period of both wars, there was a student attending Hogwarts. Quite brilliant, really. His name was Tom Riddle. He grew up in a mundane orphanage, and that combined with what he experienced after he left Hogwarts convinced him to become a revolutionary. And thus, the second war," she finished.

While Harry was choosing a color for his trunk, McGonagall continued. "He disagreed with the Ministry policies regarding scientific experimentation. To be fair, the Ministry was being entirely unreasonable about it – even after 60 years, we still haven't discovered any magic that has the destructive capability of nuclear weapons. But Riddle was hardly a peaceful revolutionary. He gathered a group of likeminded individuals and started killing off higher-ups in the Ministry as well as influential members of society who disagreed with him."

"So he was he attempting a complete overthrow of the government, or would he have stopped if the Ministry stopped restricting progress?" interjected Harry, having finally chosen a trunk.

McGonagall paid for his purchase. As they were leaving the shop, she continued. "A complete overthrow, I believe. The Ministry was not cooperating with his demands, but it was very near falling when he was finally defeated."

Harry perked up. "How was he defeated?"

McGonagall sighed. The stalwart stubbornness that marked her presence suddenly seemed diminished, and she looked every year of her age. "Mr. Potter- Harry, your parents were targets of Riddle's. When he went to… well, at any rate, your mother tricked him into a magical contract which killed him upon her death."

Harry continued to walk beside her, reeling. Somebody clipped his elbow, but he didn't notice. His parents had been victims of a political assassination?

McGonagall sniffed. "I had hoped… I think you should read the history of the second war. I'll find a good reference at Flourish and Blotts," she said. They entered the bookstore, and Harry stirred from his dazed state. While McGonagall was picking up his required reading, Harry went to look for the books that Quirrel recommended he look at. He wanted something to do during the summer beyond schoolwork, even if it was _magic_ schoolwork.

Navigating his way through the bookshelves, a stray title caught his eye, _The Revolutionary and the War._ While he was sure that his history books would have an account of the war, he thought he might want something more in-depth. Picking up the book, Harry hoped that it would contain perspective from the losing side as well as the winners'.

Taking the extra books to the counter, he let McGonagall pay the cashier again. From the sound of things, it seemed like the Ministry hadn't changed its policies after the war. He'd pick up a newspaper or two just to make sure.

Having bought most of Harry's supplies, they made their way to have him fitted for dress robes. The cheerful crowd did nothing to dispel the somber mood that had overtaken the two.

Harry hesitated. He wanted to know, but what if it was something as horrible as what happened to his parents? He pushed through the fear. "Professor, do you know what happened to my grandparents? On my father's side?" he asked.

"They both died of natural causes during James' teenage years." McGonagall pursed her lips. "You should know that you also have a godfather, Sirius Black. In the event that your mother's sister could not care for you, he would assume guardianship. If you do decide to contact him, however, please let me know. He was… suspected of supporting Riddle during the war," she warned.

Harry was befuddled. "Why would they make him my godfather if they were fighting against Riddle?"

McGonagall's face twisted. "Black and your father were the best of friends during their school days, and beyond them too. Your father actually opposed the Ministry position of the time, but despite that he joined Albus Dumbledore's faction of moderates. I don't think he could stomach a violent overthrow of the Ministry. Now, if Madame Malkin finishes your robes quickly, stay here until I come back. I'm going to pick up your potions supplies," she said, leaving him in front of the shop.

He entered the shop, and suffered in silent dignity while he was measured for the dress robes. He took advantage of the seamstress's chatty nature to find out that robes used to be more common wear, until mundane dress was discovered to be more practical for everyday use. Dress robes were still used for formal occasions in lieu of suits, however.

Finished with the measurements and not spotting McGonagall anywhere nearby, he crossed the street to pick up a newspaper from a stand.

_**Experimental Dark Arts Ban Expanded**_

_The Wizengamot passed an amendment to the Experimental Dark Arts ban of 1952 yesterday, adding a new subsection for Class C spells and imposing harsher penalties on the creation and use of Class B spells. Notable proponent of the amendment, Lucius Malfoy, said, "This is necessary to continue the eradication of dangerous magic in our society." Critics of bill and its recent amendment claimed that much of what is restricted has legitimate use outside of criminal activity, including self-defense…_

Harry snorted. He didn't know the first thing about dark magic, but the way the government made it out to be reminded him of the weapons hysteria that periodically made its way across Britain.

Paying for the newspaper, he made his way back to Madame Malkins and waiting for Professor McGonagall to return. Together they made their way to the final stop, purchasing Harry's wand. He had been anticipating that more than anything else, as it would allow him to lay to rest the fears that the whole trip was a dream, or a bizarre hoax.

They made their way to Ollvander's wand shop. Upon entering, Harry was struck with the impression of a library. Everything was neat, orderly, and quiet. Numerous shelves had carefully stacked boxes with indecipherable codes on them.

From behind one of these shelves came the proprietor, Mr. Ollivander, Harry assumed. He looked every bit the eccentric wizard Harry had been expecting and not finding all day, with wild white hair, piercing eyes, and a stooped gate.

"Ah, a new customer," Ollivander whispered. He cleared his throat, and spoke up. "And your name is?"

"Harry Potter, sir." Harry went to shake his hand, which Ollivander did, though shortly.

"New Hogwarts student? Very well then, can you tell me what your defining trait is? Don't think on it too hard," he questioned.

Harry was somewhat taken aback at this line of questioning, but deciding not to think on it, he blurted out an answer. "Freedom."

Ollivander narrowed his eyes. "Freedom, eh? That doesn't narrow it down too much. Phoenixes, dragons, and unicorns all have elements of freedom to them. What kind of freedom?"

Harry thought for a moment how to best sum up his ideas. "Individual freedom; freedom from oppression, uh, I'm not sure if that's enough for you?" he muttered.

Ollivander scratched his chin. "Are you shy, Mr. Potter?"

Harry stared at him. "No."

"Are you violent?"

"No."

With that, Ollivander turned and walked back into the shelves. Harry looked at McGonagall, who didn't appear surprised at the interrogation. She replied to his unspoken question. "His… interview is generally used to select a wand core. It is rarely longer than two questions, however."

Ollivander came back holding a box in his hands. He looked very serious. "Mr. Potter, what are you willing to do to achieve freedom?"

Harry was startled for a moment, but gave a decisive reply. "Freedom is the only thing a person has."

Ollivander gave a solemn nod, and opened the box. He handed Harry the wand inside, and told him to wave it. Harry drew a short stroke in the air, producing deep, bright red sparks.

Ollivander studied him so intently that Harry began to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Finally, he appeared to arrive at an internal decision. "Mr. Potter," he said. "Your wand is Holly with a phoenix feather core. The phoenix that donated the feather in your wand had actually donated two feathers. The first wand I made with them I sold to a young man who came into my shop and answered my questions with remarkably similar answers to yours. _Tom Riddle_," he whispered. Harry heard McGonagall give an aborted gasp next to him. He filed away the information into the why-do-bizarre-things-happen-to-me section of his brain, and moved to pay for his wand. The transaction completed, they left the shop in silence. They were thinking incredibly similar thoughts, and having incredibly disparate reactions to them.

McGonagall placed a hand on his shoulder, and they appeared back at his home in a blaze of stung skin and pensive contemplation.


	3. Integration

**A/N: Like promised, out today. Chapter 3 should be out no later than next Monday, hopefully. Reviews, Favs, and Alerts all make me very happy =)  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

* * *

Harry spent the rest of the summer reading textbooks and the extra reading material he picked up. He also did a little bit of magic, but that was more to satisfy his own curiosity. He couldn't actually think of anything he wanted to do that he could only accomplish with magic at the moment.

He had found the theory of it fascinating, however. While much of what was in the two books that Professor Quirrel had recommended either contradicted itself or was largely irrelevant, it gave him grounding for which to draw his own conclusions from. The regular school textbooks were also helpful in that they provided examples of magic which actually existed.

Harry decided that while areas of magic like Transfiguration and most Charms fell under his theory of forcing the universe into compliance with the caster's demands, magic like the memory charms he read about didn't seem to fit properly.

He also read _The Revolutionary and the War_, the extra history book he bought during his expedition to Flourish and Blotts. Harry was thankful that it wasn't filled with Ministry propaganda like he had expected, but actually tried to tease out motivations for Riddle and his followers.

Harry learned that Riddle had come from a mundane orphanage, delivered there by his dying mother. Riddle claimed to be Salazar Slytherin's descendant, who was one of Hogwarts' four founders. While the claim had been given credence by his casual use of Parseltongue, it had only been independently verified after his death.

Harry had been very interested in finding out that while Riddle had been sorted into Slytherin house at Hogwarts, he disagreed with most of the nobility's dogma at the time. His time at Hogwarts was marked by World War 2 going on, and the scrambling wizarding world's response to it. Riddle finished Hogwarts and used what little political power he could accumulate, along with his natural charisma, to lobby for as much mundane integration into the magical world as possible. While his efforts proved by and large unsuccessful, he gathered a group of like-minded individuals who believed that Ministry suppression of science and other mundane concepts would only lead to further disaster.

This group began performing targeted assassinations. At first, nobody suspected them, as nobody even knew that they existed as a collective. This allowed them to use the resources of the disaffected nobility that they had convinced to their cause to further their political goals.

They were betrayed from the inside, and the Ministry labeled them insurrectionists and declared war. The Ministry's efforts were aided by a more moderate group who had been working against the Ministry politically, but believed that killing people was going too far – The Order of the Phoenix, lead by none other than Albus Dumbledore.

Despite spies and heavy opposition, Riddle was near the brink of victory when he targeted Harry's parents. Lily's defeat of him made her something of a household name.

The alarm clock going off startled him out of his thoughts. He jumped off his bed and hauled his packed trunk downstairs. "Aunt Petunia, we need to go to the train station!" he shouted, standing in the living room.

She and Uncle Vernon appeared and went to the car. He loaded his trunk into the backseat, and they set off. The drive was made in silence. Harry thought that maybe Aunt Petunia was preparing herself for his absence, but she turned around and asked a question that put that notion to rest. "Will you be back for Christmas?" she asked. Harry blinked. Professor McGonagall hadn't mentioned there being a winter break, but he supposed it made sense.

"Of course I'll come back! Professor McGonagall just didn't mention break and I didn't think of it," he responded.

They soon arrived at the train station and made their goodbyes. "Do you know how to get onto the platform? I remember it was very confusing when we went with Lily the first time," she said, fidgeting.

"Yes, I'm sure I'll figure it out. The Professor explained it all very clearly, and if I don't figure it out I'm sure I'll be able to spot somebody else going there as well. We are early, after all," he replied.

At that, Aunt Petunia hugged him, Uncle Vernon gave him a rough pat on the back, and they drove off. Harry turned around, pulling trunk behind him. He began his search for the platform barrier which Professor McGonagall said would be clear, free of debris and signs, and most people would be avoiding.

He quickly found the most likely candidate, and gathered close to it. He pressed his fingers to it and they slipped through with no resistance. He pulled them back, and strode through trunk first, in case he was hallucinating.

The train platform he emerged onto was already bustling with traffic. Students, their trunks, their parents, and occasionally their pets were all milling around, chatting and stowing luggage.

Harry looked around. Unless wizards were much better at bending space than he believed – he had found only mentions to basic space enhancement charms in his readings – then he was somewhere else. The train platform appeared to be a small outcropping in a grassy, wide open plain, as far as the eye could see.

He still wasn't entirely sure why a train of all things was used to bring them to school. Harry had read about travel via fireplace, and he could see several hooked up on the wall near the barrier through which he entered. He supposed it would be easier for the staff if everybody arrived at the same time, and it would provide time for the new students to socialize.

He threaded his way through the crowd to the train. Harry found himself unable to lift his trunk onto the train, but he wasn't concerned yet. This gave him an opportunity to try out an experiment he'd been meaning to do but couldn't find an occasion for yet. He pulled out his wand, concentrated, and tapped his trunk with it. Finding the trunk weighing almost nothing, he grinned, exulting in his success and went to find an empty compartment.

While both of the magical theory books he bought agreed that incantations were meant to be used as mnemonic devices for remembering spells and that magic could be effectively cast without them, only _Theories of Magic_ argued that many spells could be cast in quick succession without incantations. The other book, _A Beginner's Magical Study_, said that most wizards would be incapable of changing the mental states required for each spell fast enough to cast multiple spells at the same speed as one using incantations instead.

Harry disagreed, suspecting that most wizards were too deeply ingrained in the habit of using incantations, having learned to use them from the start of their education. He thought that if he learned to cast spells without them, he would eventually be able to cast spells as quickly as anybody else. He hadn't even _known_ the incantation for reducing weight – he only knew that such a spell existed, and tried to replicate it. To be sure, it had taken him several seconds, but with practice he thought he would improve.

He found an empty compartment and pulled his still weightless trunk in. Opening the trunk, he searched for his Defense textbook, which was _fascinating_. He found it and hauled the trunk onto the luggage rack above-head. Soon, the train started moving.

He had just begun reading the section on combat transfiguration when a knock sounded on the compartment door. He stood up and strode over to the door, pulling it open. A well-tanned, brown haired boy stood outside. "May I come in?" he asked. "Everywhere else is full."

"Sure," Harry waved him inside. Together they wrestled his trunk onto the luggage rack – Harry didn't feel up to explaining his silent spellcasting yet.

"I'm Neville Longbottom," the boy stuck out his hand to shake. "Nice to meet you…?"

Harry shook his hand. "Harry Potter, and likewise. Are you starting this year too?"

Neville's eyes widened, but he nodded. "Yeah, this is my first year. Are you Lily Potter's son, by any chance?"

Harry blinked at the non-sequitur, and gave a small sigh. He hoped that he wouldn't be forever overshadowed by his mother's death. "Yes," he answered shortly. He cast about for a topic of conversation that didn't involve dead people, and the pair spent a moment in awkward silence.

The silence was interrupted by the door opening without warning. Harry stared at the interruption, which took the form of a taller boy with white-blonde hair, chewing on something. The intruder grinned, and nodded at Neville. "Neville, nice to see you well."

Neville shrugged. "You looking for a place to sit, Draco?" he responded.

Draco looked around. "Might as well," he said.

Neville turned to Harry. "Harry, this is Draco Malfoy. Draco, this is Harry Potter," he introduced.

Draco's eyes took on an unholy glint. "Harry Potter! How smashing to meet you. Has Neville told you about his parents yet?"

Harry raised an eyebrow, and turned to Neville, who was frowning. Neville let out a huff. "One of Riddle's followers killed my parents shortly after Riddle died. Over a lover's spat during Hogwarts, of all things!" he bit out.

Harry turned to Draco, and asked what he thought was the expected question. "And your parents, Malfoy? I think I remember reading about somebody with your surname in the paper."

Draco nodded. "Oh yes, my father is very active in politics. My mother does more work in research," he added vaguely.

Harry remembered where he had read his name before; Lucius Malfoy had given a statement to a wizarding newspaper regarding the recent changes to the Dark Arts ban.

"So he was on the Ministry's side during the war?" Harry prodded.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Yes, for we must keep our traditions alive lest the commoners overrun us and our magic fades away," he mouthed, as if repeating a mantra gone stale. Neville coughed, trying to conceal his laughter.

Harry just stared at them, confused.

Draco broke the moment again by offering Harry a brown jellybean. Harry looked at the packet Draco was holding. _Bertie-Botts Every Flavor Beans!_ it proclaimed. Harry shrugged, and held out his hand.

"Harry…" Neville tried to warn, but it was too late. Harry was already chewing. He pulled a face and swallowed. "Steak? What kind of flavor is that?"

Draco sniggered. "They _do_ mean every flavor. Brown ones are some of the most exciting – you get things like chocolate, dirt, fried onions, wood, hair, apparently steak, and sometimes even shit –"

Harry interrupted. "Ok, ok! And by exciting you mean vile, right? It sounds like I got lucky with steak." Then he had to suppress his laughter, as the other two were already giggling.

After that, the three boys fell into easy small talk and banter. They talked about everything from upcoming classes to comparing their wands.

"My wand's ten inches," Draco said, a grin trying to force its way onto his face.

"Yeah? Well my wand is _eleven_ inches. Take that!" Harry responded.

Neville chuckled. "My wand's thirteen inches."

Harry and Draco both stared at him.

"Well, good luck with that," Draco muttered, after a pause.

Neville moved to another thread of conversation. "So Draco, I thought you wanted your own owl?"

Draco shrugged in response. "There's hardly anything worth buying at Diagon Alley, and we've got a family owl anyways," he said.

"What's Diagon Alley?" Harry broke in.

They stared at him like he had asked what Hogwarts was. "Err… where you went to buy school supplies, Harry," Neville answered, looking concerned.

"Oh, Professor McGonagall just must have forgotten to mention it to me. Diagon Alley? What a strange name. Is that deliberate?" Harry asked.

Neville and Draco blinked, thrown by the apparent non-sequitur. "Err… what?" Draco asked eloquently.

"The pun," Harry said, exasperated. "Diagon Alley," he said, pronouncing each syllable. "Diagonally."

Draco blinked, then lit up. "I never noticed that!"

Harry laughed. "How old is the name of the place? I mean, that seems like something you would pick up on fairly quickly," he said.

Neville shook his head. "Diagon Alley has been named that for probably over 400 years."

Harry's eyes widened in astonishment. "Wow, wizards as a whole are fairly oblivious, aren't they?"

Neville scratched his head. "We might have been at one time, yeah."

The train started slowing down, and a voice announced their imminent arrival, telling the students to leave their trunks on the train.

The three first-years left the train and followed the crowd to congregate around a gigantic man who was calling for first-year students.

"I wonder what kind of wand he has," Draco quipped.

"I don't even want to think about it," Harry muttered back.

They followed the man down a winding path to a lakefront, across from which they saw Hogwarts in all its splendor.

Harry stared. He hadn't been expecting a castle of all things for a school. Granted, it was very impressive – everything he thought an ancient castle should look like. He just hoped they kept it warm during the night.

The large man – whose name was Hagrid, it turned out – told them to get into the boats on the lakefront, three to each boat.

"This is rather cramped," Draco complained. Harry grunted in agreement. They got to see the castle, that was all fine and dandy, but couldn't they get to school the same way everyone else did?

The boats raced across the lake, under a shelf of ivy, and finally reached the other side. Hagrid led them up to the front of the castle. He knocked on the front doors, and Professor McGonagall opened them after a short pause.

"Thank you, Hagrid, I'll take it from here," she said. Hagrid nodded and walked off to the grounds.

Professor McGonagall turned to face the first-years. "Welcome to Hogwarts. For those of you who do not know me, I am Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, Head of Gryffindor House, and Transfiguration Professor here. Before you join the rest of the students, you will be sorted into one of four houses: Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff. Rest assured that the sorting process is quick, painless, and requires no action on your part. Follow me," she commanded, leading them through the entrance hall.

Far from being reassured, many students seemed even more nervous now than they did before. Harry, Draco, and Neville were calm, though Neville fidgeted slightly.

Professor McGonagall led them to another set of double doors, and stopped. "You will stay here until I call your name. At that time, you will come up to the chair and place the Sorting Hat upon your head. _If_," she stressed, "the Sorting Hat speaks to you, do not be alarmed. Reply with your thoughts, as the Sorting Hat does not have ears," she warned.

She opened the doors, letting in a mass of sound, and walked between the nearest tables across the hall. She stood next to a stool with a frayed hat on top, and picked up a scroll next to it. Unrolling, the scroll, she started calling out names.

"Abbott, Hannah!"

A blonde girl with pigtails detached herself from the group and strode to the chair. She jammed the hat on her head. After a moment, folds in the hat separated to form a mouth and yelled out, "Hufflepuff!" The girl took the hat off and ran to the table bedecked in black and yellow, whose members were cheering the loudest.

"Bones, Susan!" Another Hufflepuff.

"Granger, Hermione!" A Ravenclaw.

"Longbottom, Neville!" Neville seemed to have gathered his nerves up by now, and made his way to the chair. He placed the hat on his head and waited. A moment later, "Gryffindor!" the hat shouted. Neville took off the hat, face flushed, and made his way to the table in red and gold.

And so on it went, until, "Malfoy, Draco!" The blonde nodded at Harry and walked to the hat, face set in a mask. A short moment passed until the hat called out "Slytherin!"

Soon enough, it was Harry's turn.

"Potter, Harry!" He walked to the chair and placed the hat on his head. The room seemed to be heating up. It was very different to be the object of attention, he was finding out. He barely suppressed his surprise at the voice in his head.

_Well, let's see here… Intellectually inclined, but you care more about what you can do with knowledge than the knowledge itself as an end goal. Loyal, to be sure, but you objectively place a higher value on yourself than others. _Harry was about to object, but the hat chuckled inside his head. _Nothing wrong with that, my friend. Great ambitions as well, but not for yourself… No, none of that quite fits you. Your willingness to take action and bear the consequences will be what leads you in the future, so the choice is clear-_ "Gryffindor!"

This time Harry did jerk in his seat, as he had been seated for longer than most students and the abrupt switch from mental to verbal communication startled him. He took of the hat, hands shaking slightly, and stumbled to the Gryffindor table. He sat down next to Neville, not paying attention to the rest of the sorting. He had never so thoroughly analyzed himself before, and to have it done quite literally at the drop of a hat was disconcerting. He did however think he would rather know than not.

Harry only just noticed when the sorting ended and an aged man in the center of the staff table stood up.

"Welcome, new students, to Hogwarts! I am Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of this venerable institution," he chuckled. "Before we can begin the start of term feast, I have a few announcements to make. First, I will introduce your teachers," he said, and began pointing them out.

"Professor Minerva MgGonagall, teaching Transfiguration, Head of Gryffindor House, as well as my Deputy Headmistress." She stood up and nodded.

"Professor Pomona Spout, teaching Herbology, Head of Hufflepuff House." A shorter and weightier woman stood up and waved.

"Professor Severus Snape, teaching Potions, Head of Slytherin House." A pale and dark-haired man with a prominent nose stood up and gave a terse nod.

"Professor Filius Flitwick, teaching Charms, Head of Ravenclaw House." A very short, wizened man stood up and gave a jaunty wave.

"Professor Quirinus Quirrel, teaching Defensive Combat." The man Harry met at the bar stood up and gave a wave, smiling.

"Professor Kelly Hamilton, teaching History of Magic." A tall, blonde woman stood up and gave a wave. Harry stared. She didn't _look_ like a history professor.

The Headmaster continued. "These are your core class instructors. Now, for some more general announcements. Students are not permitted to enter the forest bordering Hogwarts without a staff member accompanying them. The third-floor corridor is, as always, undergoing maintenance." At that, a large number of students laughed, or otherwise made their amusement known. Harry made a note to ask an older student about it later.

Dumbledore went on, smiling. "First year students, you will receive your class schedules and a map of the castle from your House prefects, who will lead you to your dormitories after the meal is concluded. I do believe that is all, for now." He clapped his hands and a wide variety of foods appeared on the tables. Harry grinned. He could get used to this.


	4. Education Pt I

**A/N: This chapter only took 2 days to write. See my profile 3/30 entry for explanation =D Read, review, share with your friends, etc.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

* * *

After an incredible meal, Harry made his way to the crowd of other first-years gathered around an older student with a Prefect's Badge on his chest. "Alright, everybody here? Good. Follow me to Gryffindor Tower," the prefect said.

One ten-minute walk later and they had arrived inside the Common Room, lavishly decorated in the house colors. Harry felt that the castle was too large for, at an approximate count, was no more than 120 students. Then again, he didn't quite understand why they had a portrait with a password guarding the tower either – couldn't somebody just burn it?

The prefect showed them directions to their dormitories, and handed out the maps and their schedules. He repeated Dumbledore's warning about the third-floor corridor, and Harry managed to snag him before he ran off.

"Why did everybody laugh when Dumbledore mentioned the corridor?" Harry asked.

The prefect chuckled. "Well, you're only going to be here for three years, but you should know that fixing things with magic is fairly easy. Unless it's an absolute monster of a job, it wouldn't take more than a couple of days for a person to fix whatever damage a corridor might have. Hell, you could build the damn thing up from nothing in three or four days. But Dumbledore gave the same warning in my first year and I asked the prefect of the time the exact same question, and she told me the same story I'm telling you. So the corridor's been undergoing 'maintenance' for at least seven years, which means nobody knows what's going on in there. Some people suspect Hogwarts is running an illicit potions trade, but you wouldn't think they would make it that obvious, right?"

Harry thanked the prefect for the information and made his way upstairs to the dormitory. He wanted to turn in early, as he had Defense tomorrow.

Neville was sitting on his bed, having already unpacked by the time Harry arrived. "So what did you ask the prefect about?" Neville questioned.

Harry began unpacking his own trunk. "I just asked about the corridor that Dumbledore warned us off. He said that Dumbledore's been making the same speech for a long while and there are all sorts of mad rumors about what's going on in there."

Neville grinned. "If we have some free time in between classes and homework, maybe we ought to find out?"

Harry grinned back. "He made it sound like nobody's ever made it in before, but I guess we can give it a go."

As Harry finished unpacking, the three other first-year boys tromped in. Introductions were given and they made small-talk for a few minutes. Harry found them altogether too obsessed with sports, though the thought of flying intrigued him. He asked Neville about it, who admitted that he preferred to stay on the ground, thank you very much.

Harry was about to turn in, and prepared to cast an alarm clock spell on the inside of his curtains. Then he realized there would be no way of knowing if it actually worked until morning, so he cast it for a minute in the future and kept his eyes on a conveniently-placed clock on the wall of the dormitory.

After the spell went off a minute later, making a racket and drawing complaints from the other occupants, he recast it for ten hours later and tried to focus on directing the noise inward. He would only know if he succeeded in the morning, but he rather thought that his roommates ought to go to bed early and his waking them up would not be a problem.

Morning came and his alarm spell was altogether too successful, resulting him in almost falling out of bed. Three of the other beds were occupied and their occupants asleep, but Neville's was empty. He didn't strike Harry as a morning person, but one never knew.

Harry freshened up in the bathroom and threw some clothes on, grabbing his Potions and Defense textbooks. He wandered down the Common Room to find Neville waiting for him, ready to go down to breakfast. They set off, periodically checking their maps to make sure they didn't get lost.

"First day of class, I can hardly wait," Harry yawned.

Neville made a face. "I'd rather have Herbology than Potions."

Harry turned a curious eye on him. "You're a gardener, Neville?"

Neville shrugged in response. "We've got a greenhouse at my Grandmother's. I'm not bad at caring for plants, but I'm not so sure about chopping them up."

Harry gave a dismissive wave. "I've skimmed the Potions textbook. Sounds like cooking, really, except in a cauldron instead of an oven."

Their conversation was interrupted by their arrival at the Great Hall and the sight of food. They made short work of breakfast and wandered over to the Slytherin table.

"So, what classes do you have today, Draco?" Neville asked.

Draco looked up from his cereal and fished out his schedule, handing it to Neville. He skimmed it with Harry looking over his shoulder.

"Hmm," Neville commented. "So we have Potions and Defense together – all of Tuesday and Thursday."

Draco had remained silent throughout the entire exchange, but at this he grunted. Harry gave the blonde a sly smile. "Not a morning person, then?"

Draco shot him a dour look and returned to his cereal.

Harry and Neville made their way back to their dormitory before Potions as they realized they had forgotten their ingredients and protective equipment.

"So we have two classes with each House," Harry commented along the way.

"How do you figure that?" Neville looked intrigued.

"There are six classes, and we have two classes with Slytherin. It makes sense that we'd have two classes with the other two Houses as well," Harry replied.

Neville's expression cleared up. "Oh, well, now that you mention it, it makes sense."

"Speaking of which, I meant to ask you a question yesterday but never got around to it. Why exactly do we get sorted into different Houses?" Harry asked.

Neville was caught flatfooted. "Oh, err… I have no idea, truthfully. At my best guess I'd say it's tradition. The way my Gran talks about it, she makes it seem like the whole House system was something of a big deal in her day."

Harry shrugged. "Just wondering. We've got a lot of free time outside of class anyways, so I don't think it matters too much."

By then they had arrived at the Potions classroom. It was only a few minutes before the start of class, and it seemed like all of the Slytherins were already there. The only people missing were their dorm mates and the Professor himself.

They stood around chatting for a couple of minutes, when their roommates arrived running and panting.

"Get lost?" Harry needled. "You do have a map, you know."

The red-headed boy, Ronald Weasley, shot him a dirty look. "No, we were just exploring and lost track of time." One of the Slytherins snickered behind them.

At that moment, Professor Snape strode through the corridor and opened the door, letting them all inside. The walls were bare-faced stone, but the good lighting made it seem like less of a dungeon and more like a laboratory. The two-person metal desks only reinforced that perception.

Harry led Neville to a desk near the front of the room, next to the door. He wanted to be able to make a quick escape in case of an accident.

Once everybody was seated, Snape started lecturing. "We will not be brewing today, but keep your kits and equipment out. Also, have your wands ready."

Harry shared a look with Draco, who was sitting at a desk adjacent to his. He thought that maybe Draco knew what was going on, but judging by the look he received, the blonde was as oblivious to the lesson plan as he was.

Snape continued without interruption. "Our first lesson will cover safety techniques. You _will_ pay attention and follow these techniques without fail, or you will suffer the consequences. Potions in preparation can be extremely volatile and dangerous. Believe me when I say that suffering an accident is much worse than detention. Rest assured that if your lax technique causes somebody else injury, you will be punished… appropriately."

One could hear a pin drop in the silence after that.

Snape strode behind the desk in the front of the room and started placing equipment on it. "Take out your equipment and place it on the desk in front of you. We will begin with proper use of gloves and masks," he said.

It turned out Neville was a dab hand at much of what Snape showed them over the next hour. It turned out much of the protective equipment was used the same way as in the greenhouse.

Snape had just finished going over their standard ingredients kit, from which Neville recognized several plants. The Professor then cleared his desk. "Now, take out your wands. I will show how to clean emergency spills and protect yourself from accidental fumes."

Several students burst out in excited chatter. They had not expected their first practical spellcasting to be in Potions, of all classes.

Snape went around the room and squirted two dollops of a viscous, foul-smelling liquid onto the center of each student's desk. He returned to his own desk and did the same to it. "I will show you how to vanish this liquid. You will not leave this class without having accomplished it, so if you want to leave without your robes smelling like it I expect you to pay attention and concentrate."

With that, he pointed his wand directly at the liquid on his desk, and incanted, "_Evanesco_." The liquid vanished without a trace left. "Now, to accomplish this, you must concentrate exclusively on the liquid being _gone_ – not going elsewhere, or you may accidently banish it to that location instead. You must also concentrate on the liquid itself. If you are distracted by the desk or anything else, your magic may attempt to vanish that as well. You will not succeed in vanishing your desks as they are charmed against it, but your belongings may be in dire jeopardy."

At this, a girl in the back of the class raised her hand. "Professor, what if we accidentally vanish something that we need?"

Snape nodded. "A very good question, Miss…"

"Parkinson," the girl added.

Snape continued with his explanation. "By vanishing an object, what your magic actually accomplishes is dispersing it in the nearest available stable vacuum. However, the dispersed particles are still 'tagged', so to say, by your magic. There is a simple counter-spell to return a vanished object to its original state, given that you do it within a certain time-frame, generally several hours. A skilled caster can modify their intent to have their magic tag the particles for much longer, up to several days if necessary. You should also know that knowledge of the object vanished is required to make it reappear, so one cannot simply go about retrieving recently vanished objects without knowing what they are. Knowing the individual who vanished the object is also helpful, but of course _being_ the one who vanished something is much preferable, as your magic will recognize itself more easily. I will teach you the counter-spell after you master this spell. Once again, the incantation is _Evanesco_, pointing your wand directly at the object, concentrating on it being gone," he finished his impromptu lecture.

Harry looked at the liquid on his side of the desk, and then at Neville, who appeared to be constipated while pointing his wand at his test subject. "_Evanesco!_" Neville roared, taking his cue from the rest of the class.

Harry shook his head at the noise. He would try to do it silently. Harry pointed his wand at the liquid, and _willed_ it to not be there anymore, just to be _gone_, and it vanished in such a sudden manner that he was startled out of his own concentration. He smiled, pleased that his experimentation was a continued success, when he noticed Professor Snape hovering over their desk.

His inspection was short. Snape pinned him with a look, but his words belied it. "Very good, both of you may go."

Harry had a feeling that Snape had noticed his silent casting.

The pair trudged their way to the Defense classroom. Neville elbowed Harry lightly. "That wasn't as bad as I thought it would be."

Harry gave him an absent smile. "Yeah, Professor Snape seems to know what he's doing. A bit strict, but…" He shrugged.

They filed into the classroom. Professor Quirrel was sitting at his desk, reading a book. As they entered, he looked up and nodded.

Having taken a seat, Harry took out his textbook and wand. He hoped there would be a practical part to this lesson.

As the rest of their classmates walked in and sat down, Professor Quirrel stood up and flicked his wand, closing the door. The noise from the hallway ceased and the room sat in silence for a moment. Harry thought that perhaps his classmates expected Quirrel to be like Snape, but Harry suspected otherwise.

Quirrel's eyes swept the room. He gave a listless shuffle and sat down on his desk, crossing his ankles. "I never know how to begin these things…" he muttered. He shook himself and straightened his spine.

"Welcome, students, to Defensive Combat. For those of you who do not remember, my name is Professor Quirrel. I will warn you ahead of time that proficiency in both Charms and Transfiguration is required to succeed in this class. For the last thousand years magical combat was primarily conducted with clearly defined spells, or jinxes, hexes, and curses. If you have read your textbook you may already be familiar with some. Most wizards incorporated a small variety of charms into their repertoire, such as the Summoning charm. Extremely capable wizards used Transfiguration in combat, and this was considered to be the epitome of magical combat; a wizard who was able to do large-scale Transfiguration in combat was nearly unbeatable by conventional means. However, recent advances in magical theory have changed the way magic is taught. As a result, those students who show any natural aptitude for Transfiguration are taught early on to integrate it into combat. Free-form magic, sometimes referred to as elemental magic, is also much more widely used. Both techniques have significant advantages over traditional spellcasting. If you find yourself less talented in Transfiguration, you will have to at least learn to counter it. A demonstration, I think," he said, standing from the table.

He walked behind the table, and flicked his wand. A mannequin appeared to the side of the classroom. Quirrel twirled his wand upward and the table seemed to _flow_ up. Hovering over their heads, it reformed into a sphere of metal, and then into a collection of what looked like long, sharp, metal spikes. He thrust his wand at the mannequin, and the spikes shot at it like from a canon, impaling it clean through and digging into the wall behind it.

He waved his wand in a peculiar wiggle towards himself, and the spikes melted and reformed the table in its original place. A flick of his wand vanished the mannequin and a second fixed the indentations in the wall.

"I slowed down the process of the Transfiguration and subsequent Banishing to give you an idea of the steps involved. Properly executed, that would have taken no more than one second," Quirrel said.

Harry could see his classmates staring in awe at the professor. While he hoped his face was schooled in a more neutral expression, he had to admit to himself that he was very impressed. However, Quirrel was not done speaking.

"This may seem difficult to believe now, but I know that the more capable amongst you will be able to do something similar by the end of the year, if not necessarily with the same speed and precision. Both of those only come with practice."

Quirrel sat back down behind his desk. "You may put away your books. Today we will be learning the standard shield spell. While I would prefer you to learn it without the incantation," a corner of his mouth curled up, "I know that it is very difficult. The incantation traditionally used is _Protego_, and if you cannot cast the spell without it, I ask that you try casting it silently – that is, thinking the incantation instead of speaking it. To cast the shield, you must _will_ a barrier into existence. You may visualize this barrier however you wish, though be warned that tactically having a visible shield is a disadvantage. You will partner up, and I will conjure some paper balls for you to throw it at each other," he said, walking around the room and providing each pair with small paper balls.

Harry and Neville partnered off. "So, you want to go first?" Neville asked.

Harry shrugged. He was confident in his ability to create the shield, given his previous experiences. "Sure. I'm going to try it without the incantation first, so don't throw it at my head or anything," he grinned. Neville nodded. "I guess Professor Snape was even less confident in our abilities – he didn't even mention vanishing silently."

Professor Quirrel made his way to their table and conjured a few crumpled balls of paper. "Show me what you've got, Mr. Potter," he whispered. Harry looked at him and nodded at Neville, holding his wand loosely in front of him.

Harry imagined an invisible barrier a foot in front of him, straight and square and with well-defined edges, not doing anything like glowing, just standing there and stopping anything from passing through and _existing_, and Harry thrust his wand forward-

Neville tested the weight of the paper ball, and lobbed it at Harry. It bounced off an invisible barrier a foot in front of him. Harry let out his breath, which he realized he had been holding. It seemed rather anti-climatic, considering he had just created what he would have called a force-field several months ago.

Professor Quirrel gave an approving nod. "Very good, Mr. Potter. And you, Mr. Longbottom?"

Harry picked up a paper ball and tested its weight. Neville closed his eyes and sank into deep concentration, holding his wand at his side. "Ready, Neville?" Harry asked. Neville held a finger up, and Harry cooled his heels for a few seconds. With a sudden jerk, Neville thrust his wand forward. "Go!"

Harry threw the crumpled mass at Neville, and it bounced up off an invisible barrier, proceeding to roll down an inclined surface.

Professor Quirrel nodded again. "Good. Creating shields at an angle is a good tactic when you have allies in your fight who you want to avoid hitting; though angling the shield down may be a better idea."

Professor Quirrel went to check on the rest of the students, some of whom had achieved a shield, though many had not.

Neville sat down at his desk, flushed from either the exertion or success. "Well, that wasn't so hard. Got it on the first try, too."

Harry nodded and looked around the classroom. It really _wasn't_ that difficult. He suspected that much of his classmates' failure came from ingrained notions of how difficult such magic was supposed to be, leading to a lack of confidence. Growing up without knowing that magic was real, he didn't have any such preconceived ideas. He noted that Draco had been among the first to achieved success; he wasn't one to lack confidence, Harry idly noted.

Harry sat down and began poking the paper balls with his wand while waiting for his classmates to finish. He had already read most of the textbook. Then he noticed that he was twirling his wand, and the paper ball on his desk was spinning right along with it. He quickly put his wand on the desk and picked at his shirt collar. He hadn't meant to do that. Harry wondered how it was possible to cast magic without deliberate intent. He _had_ been playing with the paper balls, so he supposed his magic must have picked up on his intent before his mind wandered off.

"Now that all of you have experienced some degree of success, I want you to keep practicing outside of class. Don't use sharp objects until you're confident in your abilities – I don't want our nurse coming after me," Professor Quirrel chuckled.

The class started to file out in excited chatter, and Harry made to follow them, but Professor Quirrel called his name. "Mr. Potter, please stay behind. Don't worry, you aren't in trouble."

Harry sat down again, telling Neville to meet him in the Common Room later.

Professor Quirrel closed the door after the last student left and turned to him. "You were the first, and fastest, student to create a shield. Did you do it silently or without the incantation completely?"

"Without the incantation, sir," Harry replied.

Professor Quirrel scratched his chin. "How much magic have you practiced so far, and how much of it without the incantation?"

Harry shifted in his seat, thinking back to the summer. "I tried out a couple of spells out home, just to test it out, like levitating things – oh, in my room, of course," he added at the Professor's bemused glance. "Those first few I did with spoken incantations, but then I read both of the books that you recommended to me and decided to try everything without incantations. I managed to reduce my trunk's weight at the train station on the first try, though it took a few seconds, and Professor Snape had us vanish liquid to teach us how to deal with emergency spills. I did that without the incantation too, and I think he noticed. He didn't say anything about it, though," Harry rambled.

"Severus can be cryptic at times," Professor Quirrel added, and appeared to get lost in thought. Harry rather thought that Professor Quirrel was being cryptic at that point, but repressed the urge to say so.

Professor Quirrel snapped out of his reverie. "I'd like to discuss your opinions on magical theory, but the real reason I asked you to stay behind was to pass on a message from the Headmaster. He asked to see you after dinner today."

"Really? Did he say what for?" Harry was intrigued.

"No, but he did ask me to reassure you that you aren't in trouble. We really should have that chat, though. Are you free after our next class on Tuesday?" Professor Quirrel inquired.

"I haven't made any plans yet, so that sounds fine," Harry responded.

"Have a good day, Mr. Potter," Quirrel said, and started cleaning up the classroom.

"You too, Professor," Harry replied, and left the classroom for Gryffindor Tower.


	5. Interlude: A Conversation

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait, stuff happened and my computer died. This story is undergoing a short hiatus while I work out some kinks in the plot, but rest assured it's not abandoned.**

* * *

Harry made his way back to the Common Room in a dampened mood. He had enjoyed being able to cast a shield, but the rather serious conversation after class had him slightly confused and drained. He hoped to get some answers on Tuesday.

Neville greeted him when he arrived and invited him to play a card game of which he had never heard to pass the time until dinner. Having explained the rules, Neville dealt out the cards and they started playing. "So what did Professor Quirrel want?" Neville asked, eyeing his hand.

Harry laid down a card. "He just wanted to tell me that Professor Dumbledore requested a meeting after dinner. I have no idea what it's about, though," he answered.

"You haven't done anything terrible, have you? Like vanished the staff table in the Great Hall?" Neville asked, a smile tugging at his face.

Harry was about to issue a denial when a pair of older red-heads cut into the conversation.

"What a capital idea! I don't believe we've done that yet, George," the first red-head exclaimed.

"I'm sure we haven't, Fred. Shall we make preparations for Friday?" the second red-head, George, responded.

"Indeed. Thanks for the idea, chum," Fred said, clapping Neville on the shoulder and walking away.

Harry shook his head. "No, I'm pretty sure I haven't done anything. Were those Ron's brothers?"

"Yeah, that's them. Let's make sure we're seen in public before dinner tomorrow, yeah?" Neville asked.

Harry chuckled. "Plausible deniability, eh? You want to head down for dinner now?"

Neville agreed and they made their way down to the Great Hall.

"I'm going to have to start working out to keep the weight off," Harry quipped after pushing his plate back.

"I think Herbology lessons will be enough for that," Neville smiled. "They're very physically active."

Harry turned an eye on Neville. "Is there something you aren't telling me?"

Neville grinned into his plate. "You'll see on Monday."

Harry snorted and rose from the table. "I'm off to see the Headmaster. See you later, Neville."

Harry made his way to the Headmaster's office with a minimum of fuss, thanks to the school maps, but was at a complete loss now that he had arrived. There were two stone gargoyles on either side of the door, and knocking on the door itself produced no discernable result. He checked the map again to see if there were any clues as to what he had to do, but there did not appear to be any other way to get in.

Harry scratched the nape of his neck and sat down on the opposite side of the stone corridor. Perhaps the Headmaster would come down eventually. He wished he had brought his book bag with him, but decided that practicing magic would be a better use of his time.

Harry soon found that any attempt to modify the walls of the castle, be it by painting, sculpting, or embossing them, would fail. He supposed that there was magic to prevent it – he should have realized that the castle walls could not have otherwise stayed so clean.

So he took to instead creating sculptures of magic in the air in front of him. They were not solid and did not last very long, but he did not care enough about them and so they evaporated every time he started a new one.

Harry had reached a rather dizzying level of detail in the flower he was sculpting at the moment when he heard footsteps coming from the end of the corridor. He looked up to meet the gaze of Albus Dumbledore, who looked altogether too amused at being late for Harry's liking.

Harry stood up. "Headmaster," he said.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Potter. My apologies for my lateness," Dumbledore said in a genial tone of voice, patting the left gargoyle on its head. The door to his office retracted into the wall. "Come in, please, and have a seat," he welcomed, having made his way to the seat behind his desk.

Harry walked in and sat down in the chair in front of Dumbledore's desk. "You wished to see me, Headmaster?"

"Yes, yes, one moment," he muttered, searching through the mess on his desk. He unfolded a piece of paper and put it back down, eyebrows knitting together. "Did Professor McGonagall discuss an individual named Sirius Black with you?"

Harry cursed himself for forgetting. "Yes, actually, but with all the excitement of the day it slipped my mind."

"No worries," Dumbledore said, waving it off. "I have here a letter from Mr. Black addressed to you, as he was instructed to start his correspondence through the school. If you choose to reply, you will of course send it directly to him."

Harry took the letter and folded it into his pocket. He didn't think that was all Dumbledore wanted to talk to him about, as he could have easily relegated this duty to Professor McGonagall. "Is that all, Headmaster?" Harry was then proven correct.

"No," Dumbledore replied, turning to the cabinet behind him, "I also have something that belonged to your father." He withdrew a cloak of shimmering fabric from the top shelf of the cabinet and held it in front of him like a fragile thing. "This is a cloak of invisibility. _The_ Cloak of Invisibility," he told Harry, though his eyes were glued to the cloak.

Harry stared at it. It was an attractive piece of work; he had to admit, but... "I'm sorry, sir, but what exactly is _The_ Cloak of Invisibility?"

Dumbledore's attention snapped and his eyes were drawn back up. "There are invisibility cloaks, made from Demiguise hair, which generally last from five to ten years before regular use takes its toll. And then there is _this_, The Cloak of Invisibility, one of the three Deathly Hallows. Most believe the Deathly Hallows to be a story, a myth, where three brothers cheat an anthropomorphized Death out of three items. The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Cloak of Invisibility. Of course, the truth is rather uglier than the story. There were indeed three brothers, very creative and very willful, who gave their magic and their lives to create these items. The Cloak of Invisibility is different from other such cloaks in that it will never wear out and it protects you against not only sight but all forms of magical detection when you are wearing it with the hood on."

Dumbledore handed to Harry, who took it with a reverent look on his face. "I'm sorry, sir, but how do you know that this is one those… Deathly Hallows, and not a regular invisibility cloak?"

Dumbledore scratched his beard. "Well, there is the fact that while your grandfather owned it and your father used it regularly for most of his life, it remains in perfect condition. Also, such magic also rather easy to detect when it is not actually in use."

"Thank you very much, sir," Harry mumbled, still admiring his cloak. He stood up, ready to leave.

"Oh, one more thing, Harry. Unfortunately, the most important thing," Dumbledore said, motioning for him to sit down.

Harry sat with some trepidation. What could be more important than receiving an item of legend?

"Harry, I am telling you this now so you are not caught off-guard in the future, and so you will be able to make informed decisions," Dumbledore warned. "There was a prophecy made about you before your birth, and it said the following.

_The one who will bring the revolution approaches_

_He will be born as the seventh month dies_

_And as the instigator of events_

_He will be the last of the triumvirate._"

Harry slumped back in his chair, trying to digest this. "So, who else knows about this?" he asked after a short silence.

Dumbledore's eyes widened, as if he had not expected this to be Harry's first question. He let out a sigh. "Well, Tom Riddle knows the first two lines. That is, in fact, why he went after you that Halloween in 1981."

Harry froze in his seat. "He went after me? Professor McGonagall said he went after my parents!" he ground out.

Dumbledore rubbed his temples. "That is the general assumption, yes, as the prophecy is a secret. However, it is clear now that his motivation was to make sure you did not start a revolution after he had won; if you did not know, he was very near the brink of victory by then."

Harry nodded, numb. "Who made the prophecy?"

"I will not tell you who made the prophecy," Dumbledore raised his hand, cutting off any remarks, "nor will I tell you who delivered it to Riddle. Those unfortunate enough to make a prophecy cannot remember it in any case, and the second individual regrets it greatly. I will not have you searching them out," he finished in a very firm tone.

"Of course, sir," Harry acquiesced. "But do you know what that last bit about the triumvirate means?"

Dumbledore let out a mirthless chuckle. "No, I do not. You should not concern yourself overmuch with this, Mr. Potter. You do not have to feel obligated to _do_ anything; your existence is enough to cause this prophecy to come true."

"I've never been one for inaction," Harry said under his breath. He gathered his cloak and prepared to leave, when a thought struck him. "Headmaster, do you know where the other two Deathly Hallows are?"

He turned around to find Dumbledore with a curious expression on his face. "No. You may go, Mr. Potter," he murmured, gathering himself.


End file.
